The Finish Read online

  The Finish

  Jade Eby

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. June - 1998

  August - 1998

  October - 1998

  December - 1998

  March - 1999

  June - 1999

  September - 1999

  November - 1999

  2. January - 2000

  March - 2000

  May - 2000

  June - 2000

  February - 2001

  July - 2001

  3. January - 2002

  March - 2002

  October - 2002

  December - 2002

  February - 2003

  July - 2003

  November - 2003

  4. April - 2004

  July - 2004

  September - 2004

  November - 2004

  January - 2005

  June - 2005

  September - 2005

  5. March - 2006

  May - 2006

  June - 2006

  November - 2006

  March - 2007

  August - 2007

  November - 2007

  6. February - 2008

  May - 2008

  July - 2008

  The Next Day

  Where Whiskey Meets The Finish

  7. July - 2008

  October - 2008

  January - 2009

  April - 2009

  June - 2009

  August - 2009

  8. February - 2010

  May - 2010

  August- 2010

  March - 2011

  August - 2011

  December - 2011

  January - 2012

  Afterword

  The Finish Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Jade Eby

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2014, Jade Eby

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please visit an ebook vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Editing: Megan D. Martin

  Cover Design: Ari at Cover it! Designs

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  There are so many people I could dedicate this book to, but I want to individually thank those people in the acknowledgements and instead dedicate this book to the people who need this book the most:

  The women who live Tawny's story every single day. The women who are brave and strong and incredible in every way. This book is for you, because I believe in your happy-ever-after. I believe you can survive.

  THE FINISH is the after taste once you have swallowed the whiskey. Once the burn passes, then the flavors and experience reveal themselves, some of which are subtle, while others quite strong. Whatever flavor and experiences remain after the swallow is how you determine how good the finish is.

  Chapter 1

  June - 1998

  Apollo, Minnesota. The most backwoods, redneck, shit-hole city of the upper Midwest. It wasn't my choice to come back. I was shipped back home. My aunt didn't think smoking cigarettes, saying "fuck it" and staying out until three in the morning was appropriate for a sixteen year old girl. What the hell does she know, anyway?

  The truth is, Aunt Rachel didn't want me there about as much as I wanted to be there. Which is to say, we were already doomed for disaster. I think she agreed to take me in because it was another thing to add to the list of reasons my mother was going to hell. So said Aunt Rachel.

  How she and my mother are related is a mystery. She is flabby, curved and soft where my mother is lean, tall and hard. Rachel is almost eighteen years older than my mother and it shows. In every way. From her high waisted jeans and strict rules to the mini van and burnt, shitty brownies. She is every bit of a mom whereas Shelly, my real mother, is not.

  My cousins are okay, but it was always clear who the real "kids" were and who the outcast was. I was relegated to the cold, unfinished basement with a bed, comforter and one dresser. It's not much more than what I have now, but it wasn't home. It wasn't comfortable. I hated it.

  Not that living at home with my parents is much better. Sure, I'm left to my own devices and I can do whatever the hell I want, but it also means watching for cracked and broken beer bottles outside the trailer at night. Hoping there isn't a passed out parent on the living room floor, or in the bathroom. The nights their friends or associates are around are the worst. They have no shame. Don't even try to hide the drugs, booze and illegal activities. On one hand, they look at me like I'm a mindless child with no idea what the hell is going on. But on the other, no matter how hard I try to be invisible, they see me. Find me. Want me.

  But if there's one thing my piece of shit father is good for, it's teaching me things. How to change the carburetor in an old shitty Honda. Shooting a gun. Downing shots of Whiskey. Inhaling cigs the right way.

  I've learned to survive without him, because of him. It's not like my mother can do anything for me - what with her tweaked out on meth or coke or whatever drug of the month she's on.

  My parents are low-life douchebags. There's no denying that. But, it could have been worse. I know some of their friends like to hit their kids. Beat them to a pulp after a bender. Mine don't do that. They're more likely to skip town and forget I exist.

  That's the entire reason I had to go live with Aunt Rachel in the first place. Dad left for Florida with some blond chick he met at a skeevy bar on the outskirts of Minneapolis. Mom went a little crazy after that. Police found her passed out in the McDonald's bathroom. I went to pick her up from the police station the next night. According to Mom, the lady with fake tits and trashy roots would leave my father when she found out how much of a loser he was. She kept repeating, "she'll figure it out. Just you wait." If she'd had anyone else pick her up that day, the police would have been none the wiser. But when your sixteen year old daughter who looks slightly scary in heavy makeup and a short skirt comes to pick up a drunk parent - things start to look a little shady. I wonder how that conversation went down when they called Child Protective Services.

  'Hey, we got this goth girl picking up her drunk mother. She looks a little slutty. Maybe you should look into this?'

  The kicker is that Mom didn't even get sober for the social worker when she showed up. The lady took one look at my stumbling mother, smelled the stench of alcohol emanating from her and asked if she had any other family that could take me in for a while.

  Apparently I was too old for them to keep checking in on me or whatever. They never called. I guess I was an open and shut case. Maybe I was too old for them to really care. Aunt Rachel didn't even bother to call them when she dropped me back off. Said she couldn't deal with me anymore and left me at my trailer door.

  I told her good riddance.

  And of course, Dad came back while I was gone. He spun some bullshit story about how Candy meant nothing to him and he was going through a midlife crisis. He told Mom that he loved her so much he couldn't stand it and she should take him back because he would take care of her better. He would be a better husband. At least that's what she told me when I got back. He never said anything about being a better father. Guess he didn't care about me.

  I asked her why she took him back and she gave me
a small pitiful smile. "Oh, honey. You'll understand when you get older. Even if I wanted to - I just can't quit your father."

  That's such a weird concept - to quit someone. To me, it sounds pretty damn easy. They fuck up, you leave, right?

  * * *

  I spend a lot of time watching the people in my neighborhood go on about their lives. Honestly, Yellowridge Trailer Park is a community of deadbeats. The trailers all look alike - worn down, decrepit, trashy. Even our pepto bismol pink trailer with the paint peeling and the front steps caving in - isn't the worst one. Anyone who lives here is poor, fucked up or from the "wrong side of the tracks." You can ask anyone at South Water High School - they would be happy to tell you what's wrong with the people living here.

  The only trailer that looks halfway decent is Mr. Mitatoshi's, next door. He paints every couple of years. Mows his lawn religiously. Spends hours working on his garden. He's a little old Asian man whose lips are always in a tight scowl. He doesn't like me - but who does?

  Aunt Rachel was kind enough to drop my ass back in Apollo halfway through the summer. It was enough time to figure out which stoners at South Water have the best weed hook-up, who is banging who and how much I missed over the last year.

  So far, I haven't missed much.

  I knew what the sluts and popular kids would say once I left - vanished into thin air. They would concoct outrageous stories about how I'd murdered someone or sold my body to drug dealers to get high. No one would hear the real story because I hadn't had time to tell anyone where I was going. Not that I would have if I'd had the chance anyway. I have so-called friends, but they're the kind you share a joint with behind the football stadium on Friday night. Or the kind you call up when there's an unsupervised party you've caught wind of. They're not the kind of friends you commiserate with about drunk mothers and absent fathers.

  So far, this summer has been quiet and uneventful. I glide through my days as if I have nothing to worry about. I guess I don't. Mom and Dad are barely around, I don't have Rachel riding my ass to clean my room, or take the dog for a walk or read a book. I'm free to waste my days watching slasher movies for hours on end with Danielle Moots, who gets my particularly macabre personality. She never says much outside of "yeah, sure, my basement has a big TV" but I sense we could be better friends if we wanted to. If we tried harder.

  And then there's Chance Waters. We smoke so much pot everyday, my head swims in the clouds. We've had a thing this summer. Nothing important. Nothing that will go anywhere. But it's convenient. We worry about nothing, therefore, everything comes easy to us. What would happen if we became an official thing? Would we fizzle out in a mutual respect, go our separate ways or would we grow up and out of our pot-smoking ways, get married and have babies?

  I know these people I spend my summer days with won't be a part of my future. They're a part of my right now. A way to pass the days until I graduate and get the hell out of Apollo.

  Even though I don't know what my life looks like outside of my dirty trailer and this small river town, I know that it's gotta be better than this. My life is not destined to be like my mother's. Confined to Apollo's city walls, constantly waging a war between being sober and getting the next fix.

  I'm better than that.

  August - 1998

  South Water High is a special kind of hell for girls like me. It's not a place to learn, or to make friends or figure out where you want to go with your life. It's basically a glorified runway for the rich and popular kids to show off their shit.

  The boys swing into the parking lot in their shiny new cars, their polo shirts and fresh pressed khaki's looking sharp against their tans. The girls wear designer clothes, tote around expensive handbags and depending on who your daddy is - get some sort of plastic surgery to enhance their already good looks.

  The first day back is always a little fun, though. There's this strange vibe that runs through every social circle. Geeks, jocks, burnouts. We all feel the same thing on the first day back. Anxious.

  It's a contest to see who's changed the most. Who's grown bra sizes or lost baby fat and gotten hot. Who's paired up with who. Who got laid for the first time and would get publicly shamed for it.

  This year, the focus will be on me. Why I'd left. Why I came back. The stories will circulate around South Water like a dirty plague, threatening to steam-roll the truth - if it even came out. I'll get all the dirty looks from the rich girls whose boyfriends forgot all about me and now, suddenly remember who I am.

  I'm not unattractive. A little on the average side. I'm short, but thin. Long reddish-brown hair that hangs below my shoulders. I'm not out to impress anyone, like the other girls. I don't give a shit what anyone thinks. Maybe that's why they hate me. Because I don't conform to their rules. I'd rather smoke a joint and think about getting out of this fucking city than spend an extra hour in the bathroom. Besides… girls like me never get ahead, no matter how hard we try. Why bother fighting the inevitable?

  * * *

  I wake up this morning knowing something is different. I can't place a finger on one specific reason - it just feels like there's something important about to happen. Maybe it's first day jitters but it thrums inside of me all morning.

  Chance picks me up in his rusted up truck, his leather jacket slung around his shoulders like he thinks maybe someone outside of our circle will notice him. Sometimes, when he doesn't reek of weed or smoke - he is cute and charming.

  We get to the school parking lot early to mingle before classes start. Danielle tells us about the rave she snuck into last weekend and we all laugh on cue. It's all so very surface level. So meaningless. Sometimes, it occupies the space in my brain that is usually spent worrying about whether I'd find my parents alive when I got home. But today, I can't rub the irritation out. It's like I skipped an entire year of their trivialness and now I can't stand how young, naive they all seem to be. I spent half a year at a boarding school with people who would rather do math worksheets than talk to me.

  I lived in my brain a lot last year.

  Anticipation gnaws at my skin. Chance tells a ridiculous joke and he looks at me expecting something so I laugh like I'm supposed to and wrap my arm around his. That's when I see him.

  It's not like he's anything special. Just another preppy boy, in a fancy car, with a shit-eating grin.

  But the way his eyes find mine. The way the lines in his face seem to rearrange into something familiar startles me. He stares for only a second before he realizes I'm staring back. He turns away, head down, and says something to Grayson Taylor. Guy is a grade A douchebag but he's not the worst one. There were worse friends this new guy could've made. I'm a little disappointed that I was only gone for a little less than a year, and yet I'd missed hearing about the "new guy."

  I nudge Chance in the ribs harder than I intend.

  "What?" he asks, rubbing his side.

  "Who's that?" I ask, pointing the guy out.

  Chance shrugs. "Fuck if I know. If he's hanging around Grayson, then he's an asshole."

  I don't want Chance to think that I'm interested in knowing more about the guy. I give him a lame laugh and turn my attention back to his story.

  But no matter how hard I try to focus on Chance, the new guy's face - the way his intensity seemed to roll off of him in waves from where he was standing - won't leave me alone. Who is this guy and why do I care so damn much?

  * * *

  First Period. Mr. Ratche's class. I expect to sit in the back, undetected and fall asleep. His voice is just monotone enough to put me on the edge of slumber. I plan on taking advantage of it.

  Until the new boy sits down next to me.

  He unpacks his things, his eyes shifting to me every so often. I stare at him, just to see if it makes him uncomfortable. When he finally looks over to me, I hold his gaze. Ask him what he's staring at.

  Really, I'd been the one staring first, but I wanted to see how he'd react. His meek response isn't what I expect.

  It
isn't followed by a sneer or a scowl or a fuck you, slut. It's almost like he's scared of me. Like he wants to withdraw into himself and become invisible.

  That's the thing about people who want to be invisible, they always know one of their kind. There's something about his shifty eyes and the tremble in his hand that makes me think he's accustomed to blending in. Being looked over instead of looked at.

  And not in the same way I am.

  People choose to ignore me. He chooses to be unseen.

  But I see him.

  I see the way he tries to concentrate on his paper while Mr. Ratche lectures. I see the way he tries to sneak a look at me every few minutes. He doesn't know that his backpack is wide open and primed for nosy girls like me. His copy of In Cold Blood sticks out among his textbooks and papers and I wonder if he's seen the movie. Does he prefer books to movies? Stupid, mindless questions that make me disgusted with myself.

  He's just a boy for Christ's sake. Who the fuck cares if he likes to read books?

  Mr. Ratche must have it out for the new kid. He calls on him. His name is Carter. Asks him if he's read any good books this summer.

  "I don't read," he says, his cheeks reddening. He's clearly lying, the book in his backpack evidence. But why? Isn't the point of English class to read? Why would he have to hide that?

  I kick over his bag, the book spilling out with all of his other things. His scowl lasts a brief second, but I don't miss it. When he asks why I did it - I tell him I just wanted to see which book it was. The truth is - I want him to notice me. To know that I know he's lying. That I'm not the kind of girl you can lie to. There's a lot of people in this town he can fool - but not me. I'll find out his story, even if he doesn't know it yet.

  * * *

  The thick August air shifts from suffocating to tolerable at night and I watch the flames from my fire pit dance in front of me. I take another drag on a cigarette and I hear it. Rustling. Someone is trampling through the field to the left of my house, and they're not even trying to be quiet about it.